


At the Crossroads

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: A long time ago, Hanzo’s father told him a story that dragons could visit dreams. He wishes such stories were true, if only so he could wake McCree now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this amazing comic series (https://gunnslaughter.tumblr.com/post/151209191051/page-1-page-2-page-3-page-4-im-just) by gunnslaughter. They’re making incredible work and I had to do something based off it.
> 
> Thanks to revolverwaffle for being my beta on this one!

A long time ago, Hanzo’s father told him the dragons could visit dreams.

It was a story, one he’d likely made up on the spot in retrospect. Back when Hanzo was only a child, he’d had the most fearsome nightmares after his Mother’s death, specters of death coming to haunt him in the late hours of the night. A month after the dreams started Hanzo had a nightmare so horrific he woke up screaming. It’d caused his Father to kick open his doorway, sword in hand, convinced someone was trying to kill his eldest. 

It was this incident that prompted his father to make up the tale. Despite his variety of faults (which Hanzo would grow more and more aware of as he was older), he did truly care for his sons. While his spirit dragon curled up to Hanzo’s side, he’d told his son that said spirit could visit his dreams. It was the power of the dragon spirits, he claimed, weaving a tale that would rest in Hanzo’s mind as one of his best. 

“The dragons protect what they care for,” his father had said. “They will refuse to let of a son of mine come to harm. As your dragon will protect you when it decides to appear.” 

The tale sat with Hanzo, even when he learned it was just a story. He would later tell it to Genji as they grew older, soothing his younger brother’s nightmares with the promise of twin blue spirits coming to his aid. It was only once those two spirits ate his brother alive with his command that his faith in all his father’s stories shattered entirely. 

He remembered them, though, even when they became bitter in his memory. When Genji returned, he’d been able to look at them through a less critical lens. Stories, family legends: they were something his brother and him shared, despite the gulf that stretched between them. Genji remembered them as well as he did. On the rare occasions they spoke when one needed comfort, they often drifted back to those stories. Sources of comfort, even now. 

Hanzo doubted such stories could provide him solace as he looks through the glass in front of him. It had been five days since the mission went wrong, three since he’d woken up with his head bandaged and a cowboy hat on the cot next to him. Two since he’d been let into this room where Jesse was hooked up to a respirator and told “he’s not improving.” All and all, it was less than a week. 

It felt like a lifetime.

Angela allowed him to bring in chairs when she realized he’d be visiting for hours at a time. He took the one in the middle, once sleeping across all three when Angela forgot to kick him out one night. Others came in and out, a steady stream of visitors to help pass the time. Besides Hanzo, Fareeha and Ana visit the most often. Both often speak while they visit, telling stories not to him, but to the prone form on the bed. Tales of wild west heroes, and horses galloping under the night sky. 

Hanzo did not know the stories, but he recognized the tone of them. They were the same as his father’s in a way; tales meant to ground, to provide comfort, to stitch together a community. He listened with a keen ear, half tempted to take down the words. 

If Jesse woke up, he would want to tell the man those stories himself. And perhaps a few of his own. 

Everyone else visited as well, a parade of heroes to send well wishes and good words. A few spoke to Hanzo, deciding their time was better spent on trying to heal a man still awake rather than one asleep. Others ignored him entirely, and Hanzo did not blame them. Genji stopped by during visiting hours, often resting on Hanzo’s shoulder, a steadying presence and nothing more. 

Today he did no such thing. Instead he sat down, and began to speak.

“Do you remember the story you told me? About the dragons visiting dreams?”

Hanzo sighed. The silence was better, he thought. He didn’t look to Genji, instead keeping his gaze on McCree behind the glass. His robotic hand was clenching the sheets. Like he was in pain. 

“It was a story, Genji. Nothing more.”

“Spirit dragons are a story to most people,” Genji said, leaning back in his chair. The idealism in his voice was unmistakable. It reminded Hanzo of when they were boys. “Yet, we know that isn’t true.”

Hanzo looked down at his hands. It was an idea, an infectious one. Something out of a fairytale. Part of Hanzo wanted to give into it, to let it be a reality. To let himself believe that his dragons could wake McCree up, drag him into wakefulness by Hanzo’s command. 

The other part of him knew that wasn’t possible. He would know. He’d tried as such the last two nights, hoping desperately that his father’s story might not be a story as he assumed.

Each time he’d made an attempt, he’d come back empty handed. On the first night, the dragons told him they knew nothing of what he asked, the second, Hanzo began to believe them.

After Genji left, he closes his eyes again and lets the dragons free from his skin. When he opens them, they floated above him, regal expressions perplexed. 

“Master-” Hanzo holds up a hand. 

“I know. You have no idea what I ask. Instead, I have a different request.” The dragons keep staring. Hanzo looks to Jesse. He seems small on the bed, surrounded by nothing but machinery and wires. Hanzo wraps his hands together. Lets out a long sigh. “The doctor will not let me inside. There is too much that could be disturbed. But someone must keep him company.” The dragons are still in front of him, and Hanzo’s voice takes on an edge of pleading. “He would not want to be alone.”

There was a pause where Hanzo thinks they’ll deny his request. They do not. After a moment, they slip through the glass. One curls up on McCree’s chest, almost like a cat. The other rests at his feet. Keeping guard. 

“Thank you,” Hanzo says. When Angela does not appear to kick him out, he lies down on the chairs. The dragons stay in place as he drift off, eyes watchful. 

That night Hanzo dreams of standing at a dusty crossroads, hands clenched behind his back. A whistle can be heard in the distance, a soft tune Hanzo knows far too well.The dust sinks into his shoes as he waits, humming the song he hears over the sound of wind. 

He hopes the tune brings McCree back home. 

  
  



End file.
